


Food for Thought

by SpicyCheese



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, in that I'm ignoring that anyone on Team Machine died in season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyCheese/pseuds/SpicyCheese
Summary: Prompt: Shaw noticing the little things Root does for her that make her feel she's not living in a simulation.





	Food for Thought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PommesDeFuji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PommesDeFuji/gifts).



 *_*_*_*_*

 

It starts with Avocado Ice Cream. 

"Just thought you might need a pick me up.”

Her kneejerk inclination is to stamp the offered ice cream cone out on the table like a cigarette. As amusing as Root’s reaction would be however, she could use the sugar boost.

Dreams the previous night were vivid enough to have her wake rattled. Even three months out from Samaritan’s defeat, there are still moments here and there that make her second-guess her current reality. Until she finds something convincing that it isn’t just another simulation, she just has to ride it out.

A phone conversation with Fusco or a visit to the subway car to watch the Machine blink hello aren’t always an option. Encountering something she’s sure her brain couldn’t or wouldn’t manufacture itself isn’t exactly easy either- especially when she’s the one working on trying to distinguish if what she’s experiencing isn’t actually real.

"Unless you’re in the mood for a different kind of treat…" Root’s pointed comment pulls her back to reality. “How does it go? _‘I scream, you scream’_ …”

Rather than an eye roll, Shaw responds with an extra-long, languid lick at the cone. The off-balanced expression on the other woman is far more rewarding than if she’d rejected the snack in the first place.

The ice cream itself is odd but enjoyable. "Kinda tastes like an apricot,” Shaw frowns, concentrating. “But not. It's okay." It’s also totally different than anything she’s tasted. Shaw finds herself eating it a little bit slower, savoring it a bit and doesn’t even glance up again until she’s crunching into the sugar cone. When she does, Root’s expression is altogether different. It’s growing more and more familiar though.

 _Action Potential,_ a phrase left over from medical residency, comes to mind. There’s a palpable energy built up behind the look, something charged and waiting to be received and the wattage has only increased since Shaw’s return.

“What?” she says through a mouthful, though not as blunt as she was aiming for.

Root shrugs and thankfully the energy abates a bit. "Nice to see your appetite back is all.”

Before Shaw can respond, Root’s eyes blink glassy. "She says John could use a hand across town.” Then, back once more. “Up for an outing?"

“Oh, I’m ready.” Shaw crumples the paper from the cone, tossing it aside, and for the first time all day feels like it’s true. She’s feeling more grounded, tension eased slightly, and whether that was the sugar boost or the company she’s just relieved whatever it was has passed. “Lead the way.”

 

*_*_*

 

A month later it happens again.

It’s around 3 am when the passenger-side door opens abruptly, a familiar lanky frame sliding inside.

“Well this brings me back,” Root sighs, a bit too cozily considering the knife pressed at her throat.

“Thought you were in Florida,” Shaw grumbles, re-sheathing her weapon and settling back into the seat.

“Figured you’d like some company,” she shrugs, passing over a grease stained paper bag. Hands free, she takes the opportunity to slide the seat back for more leg room. “She said it’s been a rough few days.”

“Well you and Hal-9000 can stand down. I’m fine,” And she _is_ fine. For the most part. Coming face-to- face with the Samaritan doctor ( _her_ Samaritan doctor) during their last number had been unexpected, but not splintering. Not all the way at least.

She’s not about to take chances until she’s sure, of course, which is why she hasn’t been back to the subway. It’s why she’s been sleeping in Fusco’s car instead of her apartment, why she’s been sticking to the shadows, and generally staying away. Judging by the skeptical look on Root’s face, maybe it’s been going on longer than acceptable.

She shifts focus to the food instead, the unfamiliar smell assaulting her full on when she opens the bag. “The fuck is this?"

“It’s called a _Dirty River_. Everything bagel with Nutella and Lox," Root says as Shaw pulls it out of the bag for further investigation. "Over 700 yelp reviews."

Outside of its tinfoil wrapping the snack is even less appealing, the bright pink slabs of potent salmon laid on muted brown spread present completely unappetizing. Her traitorous stomach growls audibly though, so she doesn’t have much choice. Besides, Shaw’s always abided by the philosophy of don’t knock it till you try it, especially when it comes to food.

Upon first bite it’s… weird. Really weird. So weird it’s hard decide if that’s a good thing. With nothing in her experience to compare it to, she takes a second bite. And a third. Even as she finishes, she’s still not sure what to make of it.

“I guess two wrongs make a right after all," Root hums, leaning closer than necessary to offer a napkin.

Shaw rolls her eyes but takes it, noticing the lingering tension in her body- as well as her hunger- both seem to have dissipated. She cracks her neck, working out the last of the knots and when she opens her eyes once more, Root is right there.

“Better?” Root asks, eyes narrowed in examination and that signature energy disrupted with uncertainly.

“Next time bring something that doesn’t look like a five year old thought it up.  Like pastrami.”

Root brightens visibly at that. “I think we’ve done enough staking out, don’t you?”

Opening her jacket, she reveals two smoke grenades settled in the inside pocket. “Time to gate crash.”

An appreciative smirk spreads over Shaw’s face before she can stop it. “You brought party favors.”

“Only the best for my girl.” Root passes one over and with a squeeze to Shaw’s bicep, slides out of the car as abruptly as she got in.

“Always with the last word”, Shaw mumbles, too pleased to bother clinging to half- hearted annoyance. Instead the smirk marinades, long after the first smoke bombs hit the ground.

 

*_*_*

 

The third time is bad. Really bad.

It’s been eight months and fourteen days since she escaped from Samaritan’s custody. It’s been eight months and fourteen days of unbroken continuity in her reality. Since then there have been of course moments of doubt, unsteady rolls of time that she has thus far been able to snap out of and realize are just tricks of the mind and not simulations.

But this, right now, feels like someone just hit pause in her brain and is rewinding the tape all the way to the start.

She’s vaguely aware of the bullets, of the danger, but her brain can only seem to fixate on one thing.

_He’s alive._

“Stay with me,” Root commands, though to the Machine or Shaw, is unclear. Ripping the clip off the smoke grenade, Root flings it down the stairwell chasing it with another half a clip before dragging Shaw down the hallway.

Part of her is cognizant that Root is talking, inflection indicating a level of concern that normally would give her pause, but everything feels muted and fuzzy, like a dream. Like a simulation.

_He’s alive. I killed him. But he’s alive._

“ _Sameen_.” It’s said sharp enough to draw her attention. Root’s face hovers in front of hers, contorted with concern.

“I killed him,” she hears herself say, and it sounds so far away. So animatronic, or like hearing herself on an old recording. “Lambert. I killed him when I escaped.” The memory is so clear, so visceral, but here he is very much alive and leading the group currently pursing them.

Root grabs her by the arm once more, dragging them further down the hall before stopping short in front of one of the apartment doors.

“In here.” Making short work of the lock, she pulls them inside, shoving Shaw into a seat on the beat up sofa.

“You did shoot him,” she continues, barricading the door with a small dresser nearby before making a b-line straight to the fridge. “She says agents found him and were able to keep him alive, save him, but you definitely shot him. That was real and so is what’s happening now.”

“I can’t…” Shaw shakes her head, fingers fumbling behind her ear. The smooth unscarred skin offers little in the way of comfort.

Root grabs a container from the fridge and strides back, holding it in front of Shaw. “Eat this.”

"What?" it’s odd enough to make her blink back to the moment.

"Just eat it." 

She opens the Tupperware. "What is it?"  

"Fruity pebble crusted chicken.” 

"What deranged co-ed came up with this?" She pinches a rainbow colored piece between two fingers, examining it.

"They were out of Cornflakes and Evonne is trying okay? Just eat it.”  
  
"Root-."

"- _Sameen_.” her voice cracks. She kneels down in front of the couch, hands on Shaw’s knees, desperation markedly unchecked. “Listen to me. They are coming and if we're going to make it out of this, I’m going need you at 100%.”

"And how is me eating this helpful?"

"You tell me." 

And then it clicks. “It’s because I’ve never had it before.”

A flare of anger sparks but Root cuts her off quickly. “You can deal or not deal with that information later. Right now, I need you grounded. So eat it.”

There’s commotion down the hall, muted but there. Root is right- there’s no time to be obstinate. She bites it.

“This is disgusting,” Shaw mouths, a few chews in. The artificial tropical fruit flavor and the dry stringy chicken breast make for a truly repugnant combination in a way she’s never wanted, wished for, or imagined.

This is not a simulation.

“Sameen?”

Root looks at her, raw emotion crashing into Shaw in unchecked waves. Another thing to deal with later.

“I’m good. Let’s get out of here.”

Getting back to the Subway is no easy task. It involves far more luck than either is comfortable with. Shaw’s glitch back there is an elephant in the room that thankfully goes unaddressed. For Shaw there’s no need to, Root’s freshly bandaged arm is a Scarlet Letter detailing how her weakness almost got them killed. Again.

She washes her hands, washes Root’s blood away and is reminded why she stayed away when she first escaped. Those around her have always been at risk by proximity but now it’s directly because of her deficiencies. That’s new.

The faucet squeaks shut and silence stretches taut over the room.

“I don’t need to be handled like some fucking broken thing.” Anger is easier, always has been, and settling in that familiarity is far more comfortable than the nebulous other that lurks below it.

“I’d never dream of it. Besides, I’d rather be handling you in other ways.” It’s meant to be light but the normally buoyant lilt to her words drags and falls flat. She doesn’t meet Shaw’s eyes, gaze fixed elsewhere, fingers playing absently with a piece of wire on the table.

Root’s pain is palpable, it plucks at Shaw, and the desire to make it go away is unlike the one that drew her to medicine or the Marines. It’s different, stronger, but hard to understand. The meaning is muffled, buried somewhere she can’t quite unearth enough to know what to do. There is no wound to patch, no bomb to disarm, no solution that feels appropriate or right.

“How did you know it was something I hadn’t tasted before?” Shaw tries, tries for something neutral, something to draw the pain away perhaps.

Root continues to stare off, curling the wire around her finger like a vine and using her thumb to peel back some of the plastic coating. “She calculated the odds given your known history whether or not something may or may not have been experienced before.”

It’s clear making things right, healing, is going to take more than she can manage on her own and doing so isn’t just for her own sake; it’s for all of them.  Maybe that’s what’s changed. They’re connected now, hardwired to each other for good. Shaw’s shorting out breaks the circuit and puts more than just herself at risk. That’s not something she’s willing to do, for the sake of pride.

“It was a good idea.”

Root looks up but says nothing.

“Making me taste something I don’t have a reference for.” Shaw clarifies unnecessarily, stalling a bit. “We should come up with something more sustainable though. Maybe something that doesn’t require a palette cleanser after.”

“We have a few ideas.”

Shaw wonders if the Machine can sense it. The shift in Root’s energy, the brightness that returns, or maybe some diminutive tell She’s calculated in Shaw. Either way, the computer monitor on the desk blinks to life, browsers populating with journal articles and news stories- some having to do with grounding exercises or PTSD at brief glance.

Shaw wants to laugh. Their situation is absurd and logical at the same time. Most importantly doesn’t have to walk in the dark alone anymore. For the first time since she’s returned, she doesn’t really want to try. Besides, with all these nerds around someone is bound to come up with a couple of good ideas on how to manage this thing.

 

*_*_*_*_*

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my wife, for beta-ing and making my pile of words cogent and approximately seven billion times better.


End file.
